Chapter Twenty-Five
Harry would haveliked to have ridden the shorter cross-country route to Thornby Grange, but it would have entailed jumping more than a few hedges, gates and fences, and he didn’t have enough strength in his leg to do that. He would probably have fallen off if he’d tried and then where would that have left Miranda, with no one to come to her rescue? So he and young Dick, who seemed raring for a fight and well in control of his new mount, which had become much livelier under a more experienced hand, took the four-mile route along the same lanes he’d travelled only last night by coach and four.
To his surprise, and perhaps because his mind was elsewhere, his leg didn’t pain him anywhere near as much as he’d been expecting. Indeed, hammering along at a spanking trot with the occasional canter seemed to be helping it. Although that was probably his imagination.
Four miles on two good-sized and fit horses was eaten up in what felt like no time at all, and in less than half an hour they were turning their mounts in at the gates of the Grange and trotting up the gravel drive. The house lay silent ahead of them without any sign of life about it, and the gardens were deserted, but that was probably because one gardener was guarding Miranda and the other had run away due to having been shot at. If Sir Julian had any more gardeners they were probably lurking out of gunshot range if they had any sense. The same could probably be said for the rest of his servants who must surely know he’d now gone too far.
In front of the house, Harry dismounted with caution, afraid for a fleeting moment that his leg might collapse under him after so much unusual exercise, but it didn’t. More than relieved, he handed his horse’s reins to Dick. “You’d better find somewhere to tie them up.”
Dick, a brave and probably reckless lad, drew himself up taller. He was eye to eye with Harry. “D’you not want me to come inside with you, Sir Henry?” He looked disappointed at being relegated to horse care, to say the least. “I can guard your back for you. I’m a dab hand with my fists.”
Harry shook his head. He couldn’t put a boy of his age in direct danger. “No. You wait here and if you hear shots, then ride like hell to the…” He stopped, unsure what to tell Dick to do. Might the local constable and reinforcements already be hot on their heels? He hoped so, but he couldn’t afford to wait. Miranda could be in any amount of imminent danger from that madman. “Whatever you do, don’t come inside. Go to the rectory and ask for help from the rector, the Reverend John Mastin. He knows me. He’ll know what to do.” He paused, considering the possibilities that lay ahead. “And if anything should happen to me, I’d be grateful if you’d give Lady Madeley a message from me.” A lump had got stuck in his throat. Did he really think Sir Julian was mad enough to make an attempt on his life? Probably.
Dick, wide-eyed, nodded.
“Tell her ladyship that I love her,” Harry said, fighting not to choke over the words.
Dick nodded, somber-faced of a sudden. “I will that, Sir Henry.” He looked at his feet as though embarrassed to face someone who might be going to his death. “But you can tell’er yourself, I don’t doubt.”
Harry nodded and turned away, not wanting the boy to see the emotion that was coursing through him. No one came to open the door for him, so he pushed it wide himself and stepped inside, with caution.
But the caution wasn’t required. No one was there. Not a servant to be seen. The house was as silent as a ghost ship. Eerily silent.
Harry stood for a few moments in the hallway and considered his next move. The bedrooms would all be on the upper floor, so that was where Miranda must be, according to the footman, Jack.
Rather wishing he’d brought his cane with him as it might have doubled as a useful weapon as he had no pistol in a handy pocket, Harry started up the stairs, a little awkwardly because of his leg. They were wide and made of old oak, darkened by the years, with a half-landing where a portrait of a thin, pallid woman surveyed the entrance with a discontented expression on her face. Perhaps Sir Julian’s first wife or some more distant ancestor. She did not look a happy lady. Was anyone here happy?
As at Windrush, a gallery ran around the top of the wide stairwell, and this presented Harry with a problem. Which way to go? Several corridors opened off it. He peered down the first but saw nothing. The second was the same. The third bore fruit. Halfway down it, an enormous man in rolled-up shirt sleeves and gardening boots stood outside one of the three doorways. This had to be Baxter, the missing gardener and the only servant not in hiding. The dried mud scattered over the carpet runners could have led Harry there as easily as his eyes.
Without stopping to think, Harry strode down the corridor towards this man, making a supreme effort to exude confidence and not to limp. The man turned to look at him, eyes curiously vacant.
He stopped in front of the fellow. He was a tall man himself but only came up to this giant’s nose. “Good afternoon, Baxter.” Using the fellow’s name must surely put him at an advantage.
Everything about Baxter was large, from his booted feet, massive thighs and barrel chest, up to his overly muscled arms and thick neck. His head, however, was one of the only small things about him, and most of his features were too large for it—his nose, ears, chin, andmouth. But his vacant eyes were small, piggy, and the one on the right was pointed at the ceiling as though it had a mind all of its own.
Harry looked him in his straight left eye and held his gaze.
Baxter, a puzzled expression now on his face, unfolded his hammy, hairy arms from across his chest and squinted at Harry, who had to wonder if the poor fellow could see two of him. After a long moment something seemed to register, and he gave his somewhat scant forelock a tug. “Yessur?” He probably had no idea who Harry was, which might turn out to be a good thing.
Harry pointed at the door, where a large key protruded from the keyhole. “You are to open the door straightaway and release Lady Madeley into my custody.” He was working on the theory that if he spoke with enough authority and used the man’s name, most servants, even those not his own, would obey him. He liked to think that as a retired army officer, even if only as a medic, he still possessed an air of authority.
It seemed he was right.
Baxter put a hammy hand on the key and turned it in the lock.
Not wishing to alarm a man that size by being overly eager, Harry gave him a firm nod. “Thank you, Baxter. Your guard duty is over and you may return to the gardens and get on with your regular work.”
To his amazement, this worked as well, and Baxter lumbered off down the corridor as obedient as if his own master had given him the order.
Harry, still not quite believing his success, pushed open the door.
Miranda had heardthe chink of the key turning in the lock. Her heart in her mouth and her letter opener ready in her hand, but with that hand hidden behind her skirts, she retreated to the far side of the four-poster bed. Best to keep something solid between her and her captor.
She lifted her chin, the fire of hot indignation running through heragain as if by a miracle. Never mind smiling sweetly and never saying no for fear of being thought impolite, she would kill him rather than submit to his advances.
There was a long pause before the door swung open.
She gripped the letter opener so tightly she could feel the indentations it was making on her palm.
